My old notebooks and journals
Look too much like the ones I’m writing in now.
Though words are different,
I’m older now, of course,
And people and places have changed,
I am just as fucked up as I ever was.
Doing all the same old fucked up things.
Just in marginally different ways.
A reboot barely even trying to feel fresh.
A sequel that reminds us of all the worst bits of the first one.
The background of a sprinting cartoon.
I am nothing more than a pattern of behaviour and thought,
Replicating and repeating.
A childhood trauma fossilised in amber,
Wrapped and repackaged in new clothes,
Pretending to be all grown up.